all passengers were gone---in buses, along with the stewardesses and the second officer. The captain and first officer remained.
"Since the passengers left---have you tried to get the airplane moving?"
The foreman nodded affirmatively. "Had the engines running twice. The captain's put on all the power he dare. But she won't come free. Just seems to dig herself in deeper."
"What's happening now?"
"We're taking off more weight, hoping that'll help." Most of the fuel, Ingram added, had been sucked out by tankers---a heavy load since tanks were full for takeoff. Baggage and freight compartments in the belly had been emptied. A post office truck was retrieving mailbags.
Mel nodded. The mail, he knew, would have come off anyway. The airport post office kept a minute-to-minute watch on airline schedules. They knew exactly where their mailbags were and, if delays occurred, postal employees quickly switched mail from one airline to another. Mail from the stranded jet, in fact, would fare better than passengers. In half an hour at most, it would be on its way by another flight, if necessary on an alternate route.
Mel asked, "Have you all the help you need?"
"Yes. sir---for all we can do now. I've got most of our crew from Aereo-Mexican here---a dozen men. Right now, half of 'em are thawing out in one of the buses. Patroni may want more people, depending on what his ideas are." Ingram turned, surveying the silent aircraft gloomily. "But if you ask me, it's going to be a long job. and we'll need heavy cranes, jacks, and maybe pneumatic bags to lift the wings. For most of those, we'd have to wait until daylight. The whole thing could take most of tomorrow."
Mel said sharply, "It can't take most of tomorrow, or even tonight. This runway has to be cleared..." He stopped abruptly, shivering with a suddenness which startled him. The intensity was unexpected, almost eerie.
Mel shivered again. What was it? He assured himself: the weather---the fierce, harsh wind across the airport, driving the whirling snow. Yet, strangely, since leaving the car until this moment, his body had adjusted to the cold.
From the opposite side of the airfield, above the wind, he could hear the thunder of jet engines. They rose to a crescendo, then diminished as a flight took off. Another followed, and another. Over there, all was well.
And here?
It was true, wasn't it?---for the briefest instant he had had a premonition. A hint, no more; an intuition; the smell of greater trouble brewing. He should ignore it, of course; impulse, premonitions, had no place in pragmatic manaQement. Except that once, long aqo, he had had the selfsame feeling---a conviction of events accumulating, and progressing to some disastrous, unenvisaged end. Met remembered the end, which he had been unable to avert... entirely.
He glanced at the 707 again. It was snow-covered now, its outline blurring. Commonsense told him: apart from the runway blockage and the inconvenience of takeoffs over Meadowood, the situation was harmless. There had been a mishap, with no injuries, no apparent damage. Nothing more.
"Let's go to my car," he told the Aereo-Mexican foreman. "We'll get on the radio and find out what's happening."
On the way, he reminded himself that Cindy would shortly be waiting impatiently downtown.
Mel had left the car heater turned on, and inside the car it was comfortingly warm. Ingram grunted appreciatively. He loosened his coat and bent forward to hold his hands in the stream of warm air.
Mel switched the radio to the frequency of airport maintenance.
"Mobile one to Snow Desk. Danny, I'm at the blocked intersection of three zero. Call TWA maintenance and check on Joe Patroni. Where is he? When coming? Over."
Danny Farrow's voice crisped back through the speaker on the dash. "Snow Desk to mobile one. Wilco. And, Mel, your wife called."
Mel pressed the mike button. "Did she leave a number?"
"Affirmative."
"Mobile one to Snow Desk. Please call her, Danny. Tell her I'm sorry, I'll be a little late. But check on Patroni first."
"Understood. Stand by." The radio went silent.
Mel reached inside his topcoat for a pack of Marlboros. He offered them to Ingram.
"Thanks."
They lit up, watching the windshield wipers slap back and forth.
Ingram nodded toward the lighted cockpit of the Aereo-Mexican jet. "Up there, that son-of-a-bitch of a captain is probably crying into his sombrero. Next time, he'll watch blue taxi lights like they was altar candles."
Mel asked, "Are your ground crews Mexicans or American?"
"We're all American. Only meatheads like us would work in this lousy weather. Know where that flight was going?"